


Walls Made For Breaking

by chucks_prophet



Series: All Along the Winchesters [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Another Coda Look At Me Go, Boxing, But After Cas is Back, Cas isn't dead, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Coda, Coda to 12x23, Grieving Dean, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mary is gone, Shirtless Dean, Slow Dancing, Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean looks at the floor so he doesn’t have to see Cas’s face up close,  sucks in his chest so he doesn’t accidentally touch him, holds his breath so he doesn’t catch another whiff of his aftershave, and bites his lip so he doesn’t catch himself saying anything stupid—or worse, kiss him.





	Walls Made For Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Jensen saying at San Diego Comic Con that we'll be seeing Dean building up walls after the death of both Mary and Cas. (My poor boy.) Another possible perspective for another season 13 teaser.

 

Dean can hit things.  
  
It's not exactly an unreserved talent. Both Sam and Cas's faces have been well-acquainted with Dean's fist. The Impala's taken the beat-down after his father's death, caved in like a crushed soda can when Dean was finished with it. Every monster has gotten a taste of him. He’s ganked demons, vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, and don’t even get him started on Leviathan, those Steven Tyler-looking mofos _._ Hell, his future self punched him square in the face—twice in the same day.  
  
Throwing punches is in his nature. And now that he’s made thick, concrete walls out of low serotonin and unfiltered thoughts, he can swing as long and as hard as he wants.  
  
What he should be taking a swing at is those walls—walls he built to protect himself from the onslaught of rain.

Then again, should is a flimsy word. Like saying his mom _should_ be here, with her two sons. Or that she _should_ have been more careful before jumping into a portable hole with the Devil himself.

He _should_ have had her. And he lost her. Again.

The lights in the Bunker gym turn on, but Dean keeps at the punching bag, harder with every footfall on the linoleum. He beats it until he outraces the thrashing of his heart, faster, quicker…

Should doesn’t get him anywhere. Should is a sloppily written doctor’s note for a sick day.

Only when his right headphone slips out is he forced to take a breath, just as he is now to look at the intruder. He rests his burning head and fists on the leather bag, feeling the pain spread across his left shoulder blade from last week’s hunt, his first one after Cas died, where a large gash, sewn together with fabric from a motel comforter in Oklahoma that Dean twisted in his hand the sleepless night before, rests.

He takes out his other bud, lets it bounce off his bare, sweat-glazed chest. Metallica’s “Disposable Heroes” pours from the speakers like leftover ice from a quickly downed shot of hard whiskey, something that sounds good at the moment, piercing the otherwise still air between he and Cas.

Neither of them says anything for a moment. On top of his mom, Dean’s still trying to process Cas being alive, hence the rattle of the bag behind him. But Cas doesn’t pressure him, which is nice, but it also drives him crazy. He _wants_ to reach out for Cas. He _wants_ to pull him into a hug and tell him how much he’s missed him in the short time he was gone, that it felt like years being underwater while the sky kept hemorrhaging.

But he can’t. If he does, his walls will come down, and Cas will see only a portion of what he once raised from Hell. Dean isn’t strong, not by any means. But he has to be. Cas doesn’t need to see the side of him that’s tearing apart quicker than the seams of his decades-old denim jeans, no matter how blue and pleading his eyes are, or how deep the lines are around them.

But that’s not possible. He and Cas both know this thing between them—a friendship, a bond, the number one romantic comedy of the season, whatever they want to label it—prevents them from hiding behind walls doomed to crumble. At least not for long.

Cas speaks up first and it sounds like a boat horn calling for Dean in his one man canoe, deep and loud against a large room that suddenly feels stifling: “I’ve been looking for you.”

 “New case?” Dean manages to choke out.

“No,” Cas says before actually shaking his head. Dean’s eyes drop to his stubbled neck briefly as Cas takes a takes a breath and gives it back just as quick. “No, I, um… is that Metallica?”

Dean hesitates before he licks his lips, nods.

“Can I have a listen?”

Before he can stop himself, Dean nods again. Cas moves closer until he’s pinching the right bud between his long tanned fingers and placing it in his ear.

Dean looks at the floor so he doesn’t have to see Cas’s face up close,  sucks in his chest so he doesn’t accidentally touch him, holds his breath so he doesn’t catch another whiff of his aftershave, and bites his lip so he doesn’t catch himself saying anything stupid—or worse, kiss him.

He doesn’t have to put in the other earbud to hear his own music. He likes to crank it really loud to drown out the noise. Even when everything is still around him, because it’s always the loudest inside his own head.

 _“Life planned out before my birth, nothing could I say_  
Had no chance to see myself, molded day by day  
Looking back I realize, nothing have I done  
Left to die with only friend  
Alone I clench my gun  
  
Soldier boy, made of clay  
Now an empty shell…”

Dean looks back up when Cas hands him back his bud. He looks at Dean for a moment, the lines in his tanned forehead softening out like waves as they near the shore. “Not bad.”

“I can make you another mixtape,” Dean blurts. He shakes his head. “I mean… if you want.”

Cas smiles a little, and Dean feels his heart pick up again. “I’d like that.” He pauses, reaching for something in his coat pocket. Once he pulls out his phone, he searches for something Dean can’t see. “I actually found a song I think you might like, if you don’t already know it. Can I play it for you?”

Dean nods, turning off his music. Soon, the small space between them is filled with the sound of an uplifting organ and Cas’s hand outturned. He moves his fingers for the first time in what has to be an hour when he finally intertwines Cas’s fingers, breath hitching as he does so. Cas doesn’t rush him, just clasps Dean’s hand back, then lifts their newly joined hands. Dean gets the message, moving his other arm to rest on Cas’s lower back. Cas pockets his phone to do the same, resting his own hand over Dean’s left shoulder blade, covering Dean’s cut. Dean gasps.

“Am I hurting you?” Cas asks, pulling back a little, making Dean already regret the loss of Cas’s warmth so close to him.

Dean shakes his head and breaths out an unfamiliar feeling. “No,” he reassures, realizing then that the feeling is relief, “no… it’s the opposite.”

Neither of them is at enough charge to tear down each other’s walls, but this is a start.

 _“So if you love me_  
Say you love me  
But if you don't just let me go

 _'Cause teacher_  
There are things that I don't want to learn  
And the last one I had  
Made me cry  
So I don't want to learn to  
Hold you, touch you  
Think that you're mine  
Because it ain't no joy  
For an uptown boy  
Whose teacher has told him goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Last song referenced:  
> "Teacher" by George Michael - bringing it back (mentioned it briefly in an older fic) because I just love it and think it suits the Dean/Cas pairing perfectly, with everything Dean's gone through.


End file.
